The Holt Truth
by RSteele82
Summary: (AU Series) In Forged Steele, Remington learns he's been framed for losing the Agency during a hand of poker. As Laura struggles to maintain faith in her partner, friend and the man she loves, the couple has to navigate the troubled waters. Will it be cause for forward progress or for their relationship to flounder?
1. Chapter 1: Awakening

_**The Alternative Universe (AU) Series**_

 _ **Toss the Twilight Zone experience of Bonds of Steele and Season 5 into the proverbial trash can. These stories pick up after Steele of Approval and look at Season 4 as most of the viewers saw it - Laura and Remington had crossed that line, imbuing that Season with the "Mr & Mrs Steele" feeling that most experienced. **_

_**For the best experience when reading my stories, they should be read in order as events from past stories, as well as Canon, will often be woven into future stories.**_

 _ **The order of the AU Series is as follows:**_

 _ **Steele Forsaken (Part 1 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series)  
Steele Mending (Part 2 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series)  
A Holt New Beginning (Part 3 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series)  
Holt the Presses (Steele Blushing Redux)  
The Holt Truth (Forged Steele Redux)**_

 _ **Reviews would be most appreciated. Reviews assist me in knowing if I am hitting these stories spot on or if I am veering far of the mark. Ultimately any story is only as good as the reader's enjoyment of it.**_

* * *

Chapter 1: Awakening

Confusion. It was the first feeling that struck him when he woke, digging himself out from under the blankets and comforter in which he'd been burrowed. Not his sheets. Not his bed. Not his room. Not his flat. He peered around the room with bleary eyes. It took several seconds for his brain to put together the clues around him. A hotel room. _Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God,_ his mind repeated over and over again when his brain hit tilt.

Panic. That came second. Complete, utter, blinding panic. _Laura_. If, as the room suggested, he'd betrayed her, cheated on her, she'd never forgive him. They were committed to one another. Both had agreed they didn't have it in them to share the other with someone else. He'd refused himself the company of another woman for years, while waiting for her to come to him. And now that she had? _What the bloody hell have I done_? He'd lose her for sure, for this, the ultimate betrayal of all they'd been working towards. _Oh God, no_ , was the only thought ricocheting through his mind now. Throwing back the covers, he could have hit his knees and thrown his arms up to the heavens in relief. Not fully clothed but clad in his briefs at least. A quick, mental inventory of his body revealed none of the pleasurable aches and pains that often followed a romp. Even though he and Laura were making love regularly now, he still felt those twinges throughout his body the next day, allowing him to relive the pleasure of how he'd obtain them in the first place. _Thank you, thank you, thank you._

Climbing his lanky frame out of the bed, he still couldn't help mutter aloud, "Oh, oh no, oh no," even as he slapped his hands to his face as a stab of pain sliced through his head at the sudden movement. His brain was still functioning, despite the hangover delivered upon him by Satan himself.

A return to confusion, then, was the third thought since he'd awakened. _Where in the blue blazes am I? How the bloody hell did I get here? Oh God, how **long** have I been here?_ A glance around the room provided no clues. A peek out the curtains at the window provided no help either. He made his way across the room, flopping down in a chair next to the desk which held a coffee service and a phone. He swigged back some milk, trying to ease his parched throat as he picked up the receiver and hit zero.

"Yes…um… Mr. Steele in… um… Mr. Steele in… um..." Locating the room key on the desk, he found the room number. "Yes. 1019. A quick question operator. What hotel is this? . . . Ah, the Rexford Palms, of course . . . Yes, a superb hostelry . . . Yes of course. Keep up the good work. Good day. Bye, bye."

Nothing. The name of the hotel brought with it no familiarity, no sudden memories of how he'd come to be there. Another swig of the milk accompanied by a vigorous shake of his head. Picking up his wallet off the desk he thumbed through it. Credit cards, identification, cash. All seemed to be accounted for, same as he last remembered it. He reached for the phone and dialed the operator again.

"Ah yes, Steele here again. Another harmless query. Uh, what day is it?" He felt ill when he heard her answer. "Sure? . . . No, no, no, no, nothing's wrong. At these rates I just wanted to be sure you were on your toes, that's all… Tell me operator, just to confirm my records… umm… when did I check in?" The panic began to surge again at her answer. "Two days ago. And ah, do you happen to remember if I was with anyone? . . . Ah! Stumped you at last. Nice try anyway. Yes, good day."

He hung up the phone, taking a final gulp of milk.

 _Dead man walking_ , the fourth thought of the day. Two days. _**Two sodding days** I've been holed up here. Oh God, dinner. Laura and I were to have dinner at my flat on Wednesday evening after I concluded my meeting with BJ Sinclair. Meetings missed yesterday._ He knew exactly where her mind would have gone: just as she'd always feared, he'd gotten her into bed and once his curiosity was fully assuaged, had disappeared, once and for all, into the misty night.

Explanations. Laura would demand explanations and had every right to do just that. What explanations could he even give her? _I've no idea what happened. No, no, I'm fairly certain I didn't take another woman into my bed. No, not a single memory of the last thirty-six hours. But on the upside, I didn't leave you as you surely thought; that should count for something, eh?_

A boulder dropped into the pit of his stomach and lodged there.


	2. Chapter 2: Faith

Chapter 2: Faith

Laura arrived at Remington's apartment on Wednesday evening at five after seven. They'd agreed to meet for dinner following what they both believed would be a protracted afternoon appointment with BJ Sinclair. Her feathers were still a bit ruffled when she arrived and knocked on the door. After all, Sinclair… _Ms._ Sinclair… had insisted Mr. Steele leave his associate… her, the actual owner and detective!... behind and attend the meeting alone. She'd spent a lifetime fighting against the stereotypes women faced every day. But to have a woman… a _woman_ … act as dismissively towards her as numerous male clients in past years had been insulting beyond belief.

 _Dinner, some dancing, wine before the fire and if all went well some quality time mak_ -, she scurried away from the words, _in the sack afterwards will go a long way to improving my mood._ She laughed shortly to herself. For years, evenings spent with him had been the highlight of her day and since returning from London, their time together had become all the more important, all the more meaningful. Yes, a dose of her Mr. Steele, his natural good humor and optimism was exactly what she needed.

She knocked again, her brows knitting into a frown, before glancing at her watch. Finally, it occurred to her if he'd been running behind he might be in the shower and not have heard her knock. Fishing through purse, she pulled out her keys and let herself in.

And knew immediately he wasn't there. His keys were not on the credenza where he always lay them. There were no sinful smells of dinner cooking wafting through the air. The bedroom was dark. _Must be working his charms,_ she laughed quietly to herself. _If the lateness of the meeting is any indication, we'll have a lucrative contract from BJ Sinclair on my desk within the next day or two._ She had to hand it to him: Allergy to legwork or not, he had a gift for turning potential clients into actual ones.

Well, if he could work this late putting the contract to bed, so to speak, she could at least surprise him by having dinner waiting on him when he arrived home. Walking into his bedroom, she picked up the phone and dialed the number to their favorite Chinese restaurant. Once the order was placed, she retrieved from her purse the current novel she was reading and made herself comfortable on the couch to await his return.

The Chinese food was delivered at eight with still no word from Remington. Schmoozing a client was one thing, but this was verging on the ridiculous… not to mention it was putting a serious kink into her hoped for plans on the evening.

At nine o'clock, with a puff of frustration, she picked up the living room extension and called Fred. No, he hadn't seen Mr. Steele since he was dropped off at the client's home that afternoon. He, himself, was awaiting Mr. Steele's call to pick him up.

By ten o'clock, she was beginning to become concerned. Remington looked forward to their evenings together maybe even more so than she did, although she found that difficult to believe. _As much as, then_ , she silently amended. She couldn't imagine a single circumstance in which he would not have tried to reach her to tell her their evening would have to be postponed.

When the hour hand of her watch landed on eleven, she threw up her hands before putting on her shoes. Apparently, she'd attributed too much importance on these evenings, at least where he was concerned. Well, she was through with waiting for him to return home when it was clear he was enjoying himself too much to even give her the courtesy of a call. She'd be damned if she'd stroke his ego, as finding her there, waiting and worried, would surely do. She tossed the Chinese food in his kitchen trash can then stalked out the front door, slamming it behind her.

Then lay staring at the ceiling over top of her bed until the wee hours of the morning. Could it be he was out there, hurt? Even worse? The very idea made her heart clench as though a vise had just been clamped around it. Each time the notion would appear, she shook it off. No, the louse had just stood her up, nothing more, nothing less. That conclusion brought no comfort, as it left her questioning everything about the past weeks and her belief the addition of the title 'lovers' to their status of partners and friends had meant as much to him as it had to her.

Thursday morning, she walked into the office exhausted, red eyed and her emotions careening between furious and frantic. Neither Fred nor Mildred had heard a peep from their bogus boss. Mildred, who was still struggling with her own feelings about discovering her formerly cherished chief was part charlatan, wrung her hands one minute with worry over him and in the next minute watched Laura with something akin to pity in her eyes. Having had enough, Laura retreated to her office, slamming the door behind her.

Harry Cranston appeared in the offices of the Remington Steele Agency shortly after lunch bearing one promissory note which effectively granted him sole ownership of the business Laura had poured heart and soul into creating, then building. She defended Remington voraciously, on the surface at least, insisting to Cranston there was absolutely no way, short of drugs or coercion, that Remington would have used the Agency as collateral during a high-stakes poker game. When Cranston handed her the document supporting his claims, the floor shifted under her feet. She'd know the large, scrolling signature anywhere. Just as the name Remington Steele had once been hers, so, too, had this signature. He'd devoted a good deal of time to being able to execute it at will so comparison of records prior to '82 and those after would be indistinguishable. _The devil's in the details,_ he'd reminded her.

She retreated to her office and immediately placed a call to Reuben Saltzman, the Agency's attorney. At Saltzman's insistence, she had Mildred fax a copy of the promissory note to his office. She returned to her office to wait… and hide. Dropping down into her chair, she rested her elbows on the desk and pressed her fingertips of both hands to her brows, blinking rapidly.

 _He wouldn't have… would he?_ She sucked in a deep, pained breath. Despite the fact she hadn't been able to trust him fully with her heart yet, for years she'd trusted him as her partner with her very life. What was the Agency if not that? _Her blood. Her sweat. Every penny she had to her name._ Gone. One hand in a poker game and it was all gone. Her entire body shuddered and she choked back the sob that bubbled up in her throat.

Suddenly she shoved back from her desk and stood.

 _No!_ Looking up at the ceiling she blinked back the threatening tears. If forced to choose between Cranston's story and the man she knew as Remington Steele, she would believe in her friend, her partner. The man that clung to her hand after she'd fallen from the beam at the Federal Reserve. The man that had given her a story, and hope, after her home had been bombed. The man who had chosen to face DesCoines on his own, rather than to risk her future. The man that had held her and cried over what he'd believed was her lifeless body. The man who even when he'd lost his memory had still known, instinctively, that there was more between them than merely business.

The man who'd been rendered nearly speechless when she and Mildred had presented him with a passport in the name of Remington Steele.

She didn't know Cranston from Adam, but she knew the heart of the man who remained missing.

No, she'd stand by Remington Steele and would believe in doing so they'd come out on top, just as they always had.

Sleep did no come any easier that night than it had the night before. In that moment of hazy awareness before sleep sweeps you away, in the early light of the predawn hour she whispered into the air of the loft:

"Where are you, Mr. Steele?"


	3. Chapter 3: Ensnared

Chapter 3: Ensnared

The man who never shows up wrinkled appeared in the offices of the Remington Steele Agency exactly that on Friday morning. He'd considered going to his flat and changing before arriving at the office, but had quickly set the idea aside. After an absence of more than a day and a half, he'd been compelled to throw himself at Laura's feet and to plead for mercy sooner than later. He clung to the slimmest of hopes that if he turned to her for help, if he explained with absolute sincerity he'd no idea what had happened him in days past, she'd forgive him then help him figure out exactly what was going on.

Remington's feet halted his path at the front door of the Agency. His eyes widened behind his sunglasses as he stared at the garish décor that had replaced the classic elegance of the reception area. Hesitantly, he stepped through the doors, knocking twice on the strange desk as though that would change what was before his eyes. Mildred's emergence from Laura's office only managed to confuse him more. _Cranston? Who the devil is this Cranston fellow and what's he doing in my office? Doomed? Saltzman? What in the bloody hell is going on around here?_

Laura's enthusiastic hug only discombobulated him further. He supposed he should be grateful he hadn't found himself with a heel in his toes, or far worse, hear her speaking _those_ words again… they were done, finis. But then again, what was she babbling on about? _Forged signature? Injunctions? Who was this fella telling him to meet him in his office. His office? That's bloody well my office!_ The world around him continued to tilt on its axis as Laura drug him off to her office. From there it had only gone further downhill.

There was not a single circumstance under which he would have wagered Laura's Agency, let alone over a game of chance. The Agency was her life's work. There was nothing in her life that even ran a close second in importance to her. It was her pride, her joy… her passion. The Agency had no price tag on its head. It was priceless, even more rare than the Royal Lavulite. It was the reason he'd found her. No, any risk of her losing it would have been too great of risk at all. He'd not have wagered it.

Then there was the fact he was allegedly so drunk that he'd lost control of his faculties. Again, an anomaly, something he'd never once in his life previously done. Yes, he'd claimed not to remember a bit of what had happened in Laura's office one night many years before, but claimed not actually. The admission he'd made while in his cups had been unreturned and certainly if allowed to stand as uttered true and knowingly would have given his Miss Holt a definitive hand up. But remembered every word, he did!

Wrong reel of a movie indeed. Not a lick of it made sense. Near on two days missing, with no explanation to impart, the Agency gone, apparently at his hand. The cost of it all: the woman he'd waited more than three long years for.

Without even a morsel of thought beyond placing his hands around the throat of this Cranston character and squeezing the truth out of him, he threw open the adjoining door to his office and stormed in. He would have choked the words out of the man, too, had Laura not squeezed between them and stopped him in his tracks. Always thinking ahead, his Miss Holt: Have to stay on the man's good side while they uncovered whatever treachery had brought them here. Still, by the time the news had been delivered that three… not one but _three_ … handwriting experts agreed it was absolutely certain it was _his_ signature upon the promissory note, he watched as everything important in his life suddenly hinged on this one moment: his home, the man he'd become, the life he'd only just begun to carve for himself… Laura.

Launching himself to his feet where he had been leaning a hip against Mildred's desk, he was at Laura's side in three brief strides. His hands came together in a prayerlike gesture.

"Laura, you've got to believe me." His hands opened as though to touch her, before thinking better of it. Closing his hands back together he pled, "I didn't sign that note."

Laura had battled her demons since the time Cranston walked through the Agency doors nearly a day before. The evidence seemed incontrovertible, the details as explicit as they were. Yet, she'd watched Remington from the time she'd first seen him in the reception area some ten minutes before. She'd seen this frantic energy before. She'd witnessed firsthand previously the desperation painted across his face and body. Recalled all too clearly another time and place where he was confused by the events avalanching around him which he couldn't explain and had left him feeling like he was watching the life he'd been building was imploding around him. She'd doubted him for the briefest of time then, and in her jewelry box sitting atop the dresser in her loft was a concrete reminder, that often not all was as it seems: The key to the storage locker where DesCoines had concealed all the evidence that would prove Remington's innocence.

Innocent then, innocent now.

"I do," she answered, never looking at him, the look of apt concentration still settled upon her face.

"You do." It was a statement, a stunned statement, not a question.

Remington had been so dumbfounded by her immediate answer and seeming support that it rendered him silent the rest of time Laura had spent speaking with Marvin. Was, in fact, still mulling it over, when they'd departed Century Towers in the Rabbit. Was left floundering to keep up with her as she'd expounded, in intricate detail, on her conversation with Cranston the day prior. She'd waited patiently on the couch in his living room as he showered and changed, then resumed the monologue once they were back in the Rabbit driving in the direction of BJ Sinclair's home.

"You're the obvious victim of a very clever scam to hoodwink us out of the agency," she was saying. _That_ caught his attention.

"You saw that from the start?" he asked doubtfully.

"Of course," she prevaricated, not realizing she'd given her head a slight shake in the negative, belying her words. "After all we've been through together, do you really think I'd believe that you would stake Remington Steele Investigations, the major accomplishment of my life, the product of six years of hard work as collateral in a card game?" His eyes flicked away towards the outside of the car as he picked up on the edge of anger in her voice. "Would I ever think that you would be that reckless, that foolhardy, that stupid?" He sighed inwardly. Stood with him perhaps, but somewhere within her, doubts still lingered.

"Do I have to answer?"

"Well, while Rueben tries to find a legal means to stop Cranston from turning our office into an adjunct of the scandal sheets, we have to figure out who's behind it, how they did it and why."

"Laura, you're being remarkably calm about all this." He settled his steely eyed gaze upon her.

"Mr. Steele, when Cranston entered my life yesterday, I had one of two choices. I could believe in you and know there's a way out of this. Or, I could believe him. In which case, I would have had to hunt you down, tear your heart out and scatter it to the four winds before jumping off the nearest available building myself." He cringed internally at her words.

"Good choice, eh?"

They were the only words he had to offer. He recognized all too well the signs she was wrestling with what she wanted to believe versus what reality might be. If she wasn't, she wouldn't be Laura Holt. Still, he was disappointed and made it clear when he pricked her with a reference to the 'seductive BJ Sinclair.'

And, in the spirit of the last two days, it seemed providence decided he'd need a little payback for that prick. The 'seductive' Ms. Sinclair was not only in residence, contrary to his confident predictions to Laura only a minute or so before the woman would be long gone, but then the she-devil quite neatly served up his head on a platter to the woman he needed to believe in him. It was, perhaps, no less than he deserved, he admitted to himself as he and Laura drove away from Sinclair's house in total silence. He'd been too impressed by the woman's wealth, by the Rolls Royce limousine they would be traveling in, the top of the line champagne he'd been served as soon as he and Sinclair had settled into the back seat. And, yes, more than a bit flattered by her feigned interest in him. Not that he would have pursued anything, allowed anything. But his ego had been stroked and he'd enjoyed it.

"She's good. She's very good," Laura commented, interrupting his reverie.

"Total fabrication Laura, every word," he argued, clearly deflated by the encounter.

"But convincingly constructed to hold up in court."

"What?" he asked, his aggravation clear.

"If we're going to beat these people it has to be as Rueben says, with proof."

"How do we do that?"

"By following up this fabrication until we find a flaw." Leaning his cheek into his hand, supported by elbow on knee, he could only groan his displeasure.

 _And if all else on this thus far fruitless journey bears nothing to support my claims, then what?_

* * *

Laura gave Remington a sidelong glance on their way to the office after their visit at the Colony Park Club. His anger had been mounting with each passing mile. She wasn't sure what had finally taken him from feeling trapped like a pawn in someone's game to blinding fury. It could have been how he'd been immediately recognized as he walked through the doors, confirmation of either his guilt or of exactly how elaborately the con had been woven. It could have been the manner with which the maître d' had flawlessly rattled off his drink of preference. But she suspected it had been the final blow: the waitress wearing his allegedly gifted identification bracelet on her wrist. Whatever the reason, it was imperative that he calmed down before they arrived in the offices again, or she suspected Cranston would find a pair of hands accosting him again.

Laura's speculation was only partially correct. He'd found it beyond the pale when the doorman had immediately greeted him by name. He'd felt the noose around his neck tighten as the maître d' so precisely rattled off how he preferred his drink of favor, the Moscow Mule, to be served. He'd watched as Laura's back had stiffened and her neck elongated as her chin tipped back, a sure sign that she was beginning to question if her faith in him had been misplaced. Even if he hadn't been so intimately aware of every nuance of her body language, he couldn't have missed the sideways glance at him, the way her mouth was hardened in anger as she gave the man her order…

"Scotch, straight up."

The look she'd casted him all but said, "Straight up, as I wish you'd be with me."

She was correct, however, in her belief that his ID bracelet had been the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. It hadn't so much as occurred to Laura, at least from what he'd been able to assess up until then, that another woman might be involved. The look she'd given him when the waitress had pawed at him had clearly said 'What else have you left out?' It was as though all the pieces had suddenly fallen into place: two full nights missing; 'flat on his back at the Rexford Palms'; 'lucky charm'; his bracelet hanging from the woman's wrist. Whomever the puppet master was of this elaborate ruse had just waged an attack on what mattered most to him: the woman who'd held up the waitress's arm, her eyes daring him for an explanation. He'd yanked it from the woman's wrist without hesitation then had stormed out of the Colony Park Club without so much as a look back.

He would be shocked to know that the appearance of his bracelet on the woman's arm had helped reaffirm Laura's faith in him. Yes, she'd been swamped with what one might describe as jealousy when she'd watched the woman fling herself at Remington. Like all the women in his past, she was tall, not quite slender, and well endowed. But seeing his bracelet on the waitress's arm had made her believe someone had oversold their hand.

Remington had exactly two possessions that he valued more than anything else, and both of those items he wore faithfully, day in and day out, never taking them off: the pinkie ring he wore on his right hand, and the ID bracelet worn on the same wrist. It was not even a remote possibility that he'd gift his bracelet to a fling… or lucky charm... no matter how drunk he might have been.

In her eyes, it was the first real confirmation they'd found that someone was setting up her Mr. Steele and setting him up soundly. Pity on them, what was meant to be a blow had actually proven to be just the inspiration she'd needed to continue forging ahead.


	4. Chapter 4: Adrift

Chapter 4: Adrift

Remington sat on the filthy cot in the Los Angeles County jail, where he'd been invited to remain a guest for an undisclosed period of time. One leg stretched out in front of him, he rested his arm on the bent knee of the other. The back of his head rested against the concrete block wall, a hand held over his mouth. He'd no idea what time it was, the cell without a window and he stripped of his watch during booking, hours before. It didn't really matter, though. Long ago he'd given up on the notion of sleep when it had become clear Laura would neither be bailing him out that evening nor coming by to visit him.

His arrest in the office of the diamond exchange had seen to it. He might not be able to see her, or speak with her, but every instinct he possessed vibrated with the knowledge she no longer believed in his innocence. The former jewel thief had returned to his old ways. And the price for believing in him? Her Agency. Abandonment. It would be too much for the woman, whose trust in him was tentative on the best of days.

He'd repeatedly vowed to himself throughout the night that when… or if… he was released from the jail, he would find Cranston and all his cronies and make them pay a cost equal to what he had. Only, what could possibly equal what he'd had and now was gone? His life as Remington Steele, but far, far more importantly, the woman that made his heart ache.

He'd see them all rotting in hell, he would, for that.

* * *

For the third night in the row, Laura lay in her bed staring up at the ceiling, sleep eluding her yet again.

For years she'd been worried that once she and Mr. Steele shared the 'ultimate moment' he'd disappear back into the shadows, his curiosity fully sated. She laughed out loud, a bereft half-laugh/half-sob. Not once had she imagined their days together would end with a con, a con that would cost her all that mattered most to her: the Agency… And _him_.

It was so obvious now.

He'd somehow found out about the diamond shipment that would be delivered to the exchange in the offices below theirs. The lure had been too much for the former jewel thief. He'd assembled a team. Distract Miss Holt with what appeared to be an elaborate scheme in which he was the victim. With her otherwise occupied, cut a hole in the floor of his office, climb down, set off a small explosion to open the safe which would be heard by no one after hours. Relieve the exchange of their goods. A fence would have already been set up. Split the take. Then, with his pockets lined, as she scrambled to prove the innocence of her partner, friend… the man she loved… he'd leave for parts unknown, his new life financed by his share of the take.

Leaving her alone, as she always feared. Leaving her business ruined, her life in shambles, something she'd never predicted.

Pushing herself up into a sitting position, she covered her eyes with her hands and began to rock.

The worst part of it all? Her heart was breaking as much because of the loss of him in her life as it was that he'd betrayed her.

* * *

Laura could only stare at the diamond encrusted bricks of cheese sitting in front of her on the coffee table in Remington's apartment as her heart pounded so hard it was a wonder Keyes couldn't see it beat.

 _You handed them exactly what they wanted, Holt_ , she berated herself.

He hadn't done it. Any of it. Everything she'd accused him of in her mind last night.

Her Mr. Steele was nothing if not one of the most intelligent men she knew. There was not a chance in hell he'd hide the stolen diamonds in his apartment… in a block of cheese, no less. Both ideas were laughable, they were so absurd.

How could she have not seen it the night before? _Explosives on the safe!_ her mind shouted now. Remington Steele did not need anything as prosaic as explosives to open a safe. The only tool he needed was his sensitive fingers. She'd seen him crack enough safes across the years that this detail should have been glaring proof of his innocence.

Guilt kicked her swiftly in the shin.

Her mask of icy calm firmly in place, she excused herself from the apartment. With a little luck, Remington's bail would be arranged, courtesy of a con she and Mildred were running on Norman Keyes and Vigilance Insurance. Climbing into the Rabbit, she turned over the ignition and pointed the car towards BJ Sinclair's home.

No more playing nice. It was time for answers.


	5. Chapter 5: I'm Not Going Anywhere

Chapter 5: I'm Not Going Anywhere

Confrontation.

Directly addressing issues between them.

Honest discourse about events that had transpired.

Laura was thrown off balance the moment she'd pulled up to the curb of the jail where Remington and Reuben stood on the exterior steps awaiting her arrival. She was already carrying a good deal of guilt on the shoulders of her small frame, something she was not used to at all. But when Remington had reached into the car, turned off the engine, and opened the door, insisting they talk before pursuing leads any further, her first instinct had been to duck and run, find a way to squirm out of it, pretend she didn't understand why.

Dancing. Dancing around their emotions.

Screaming, yelling at one another when either felt injured.

Flippancy. Taking pot shots at one another to hide their feelings.

Flat out avoidance, pretending nothing was amiss.

Each of these old habits were well within her comfort zone.

Honest discussion, facing harms head on, not allowing their problems to linger and fester. Completely foreign territory. Terrifying new lands they were traversing. That she was the offender… this time… was the only reason she climbed out of the car and went where he guided. She owed him at least this much. Owed them.

Still, as soon as he began, her first instinct was to feign innocence of the charges.

"You didn't want to see me." Remington didn't even bother couching the accusation in niceties, to attempt to hide the injury he felt at the sleight. Guilt stomped her mightily upon her foot, making her wince visibly.

"That isn't true. I just -" she prevaricated, unconvincingly, at that. Even she recognized contrition ringing through each syllable spoken.

"It is true, I can feel it." He was having none of it, interrupting before she was even able to finish the statement. Even worse, he was chillingly calm, while simultaneously refusing to accept less than the truth. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he leaned against the wall on the side of the jail and waited for her to face him. "Something happened when you found out about the robbery, didn't it? Your trust in me wavered, just a little bit perhaps."

"No –" This lie even less convincing than the last, her voice small, her eyes unable to meet his.

"Once a thief, always a thief," he forged on determinably. "Isn't that what went through your mind? Hmmm?" He reached out and with two fingers lifted her chin until she had no choice but to look him directly in the eye. "Laura?" She puffed out a breath, averting her eyes immediately.

"I… I didn't want to think it. It just happened," she confessed nervously, walking towards him then leaning her back against the wall, wrapping her suit jacket around herself protectively, then releasing it. He shoved off the wall, then turning to face her, braced himself against the wall with one arm, keeping her close.

"Tell me."

"Well, I know…" she sighed hard and heavy again, pressing her hands to her cheeks. Dropping her hands, she looked at him, continuing to gesticulate as she spoke. "… it's crazy because I know I can trust you."

"Just tell me," he insisted quietly. The lack of anger, his low-key acceptance of where her mind had wandered gave her the courage she needed to plow forward.

"You must admit, it's the perfect double con. You make me believe you've been set up. I work to get you out of it and then once we prove you're innocent… you split with Cranston and the others and then… " Her voice waivered on the last two words, traces of profound sadness lacing each of the syllables.

"And then… What?" He watched as she tried to battle back her emotions, but she was unable to contain the bereaved look that crumpled her face for an instant. It took every ounce of her fortitude to look at him when she said the words.

"And then you go away." The sadness in her voice had his breath leaving him in a whoosh.

"I thought so." He looked away from her, trying to find the words. "Ah… I know I've put you through a lot." His eyes returned to her face, intent on making her believe what he would say next. "Perhaps I haven't told you often enough how glad I am we're together... Well… I'm telling you now." Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, he pulled her tightly to him. "I'm not going anywhere, Laura," he vowed, "and you better come up with something quick to get me off the hook."

He wouldn't have kissed her then, not then. He knew she'd need time to absorb his words, believe them. But when her eyes dropped down to gaze upon his lips, his resolve disintegrated. Leaning down, he touched his lips to hers, holding them there, his hand pressing gently against the back of her head, sealing her lips to his. He kissed her once more, for good measure and was beyond relieved when he saw the light had returned to her eyes when she leaned her head back to speak.

"I've got a lead…"

* * *

Laura and Remington had wrapped up the case in fairly short order, and by early afternoon they were clicking off the body count in their heads, so to speak. Cranston and Christy McCall, aka BJ Sinclair, both dead; Reuben Saltzman and Debbie Rabello were guests in the LA County jail, charged with two counts of first degree murder and grand theft, among a host of other charges. Remington Steele was well and officially cleared of wrong doing and would find his face gracing the front page of the LA Times Monday morning. As for Norman Keyes? Humiliated, at least in his eyes, and gone off to lick his wounds and plan how he'd take his revenge.

Although not a word between them had been exchanged, nothing had been agreed to, they drove straight to the Rossmore after giving the police their statements and departing the LAPD. Laura's intention to stay for a bit was underscored by her decision to park the Rabbit in the garage in one of the two spaces reserved for apartment 5A. Silence lingered between them until Remington swung open the door to his flat.

"I… ah… haven't had a decent meal in days," he noted, dropping his keys on the credenza. "And I'd wager the same could be said of you, eh?" She had a habit of turning away from food when she was upset as opposed to wolfing it down when nervous. "I'll make us a bite to eat, should you care to stay for a spell."

"I have time," she answered vaguely.

"Would you mind," he tilted his head towards his bedroom, "if I take a few minutes, first?"

"Not at all," she answered. With a nod, he left the room, shutting the bedroom door quietly behind him.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Laura lifted her face towards the ceiling. He'd forgiven her, easily, for her momentary slip of faith, yet his uncertainty of where they now stood was evident in the loss of the easy intimacy they'd enjoyed since his return from London. Only last week they'd danced, arms circling one another's hips, sharing soft kisses that hinted at the emotions which were becoming more and more pervasive in even their day-to-day interactions. Kisses that were, of course, interrupted by Mildred, she laughed quietly to herself in remembrance.

Now, her feet remained firmly planted on foreign grounds. In the past, injury meant retreating to their neutral corners, avoiding one another until the incident could be brushed aside, ignored and then they would resume as though nothing had ever occurred. But it was those piles of burdens they'd swept into various corners that had stood between them. With a sigh, she admitted to herself that she didn't want to seek refuge in old habits, that she wanted back what they'd had only seventy two hours before… that, above all else, she wanted them to continue exploring how to move forward… together.

To that end, it would mean doing something neither of them were yet well versed in: offering a heartfelt apology for doubting him. The thought… terrified her. Minefields. This new landscape of their relationship was filled with minefields which had to be traversed in order to take a step ahead, each one fraught with their own risk of revealing too much, of being the first to reveal the hand they'd been playing close to their chests for so long.

But he'd taken the first step today, could she afford not to do the same? _Not if I want what we've had these past weeks,_ she acknowledged to herself.

She looked up from where she was curled up in the corner of the couch when the bedroom door opened, unable to recall when she'd sat down. Remington emerged, hair wet, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, wearing an untucked button-down and pair of jeans. She shook her head mentally at herself. It had never even occurred to her that he'd need to wash the smell, the feel, of jail off his skin when she'd picked him up that morning. Had the roles been reversed, she was certain it would have been foremost on his mind. _Damn._

"Shall we keep it simple?" he inquired, continuing, for her benefit, when she cast him a perplexed look. "Pasta alfredo, a salad? Shouldn't take more than twenty-five, thirty minutes." She blinked her brown eyes hard, then nodded.

"Sounds perfect," she agreed. "I'm just going to…" This time it was she to tilt her head towards the bedroom.

"I'll just be in the kitchen, if you'd care to join me," he offered, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans, clearly uncomfortable.

"I'll be there in just a minute." He nodded then made his escape from the room.

In his bedroom, Laura slid open the closet door, selecting a hanger which bore a pair of her jeans and a short-sleeved summer sweater. Discarding her suit in the hamper, she slipped into the more casual attire before joining him in the kitchen. Leaning a shoulder against the doorway, she watched as he stirred milk into the mixture already simmering in the sauce pan. She wondered, briefly, if she'd ever tire of watching him as he cooked… so relaxed… so content.

 _Stop stalling, Holt,_ she chastised herself silently. Stealing across the kitchen on silent, bare feet, she slipped her arms around Remington's waist from behind. He tapped the wire whisk on the side of the sauce pan then lay it on the trivet. Turning in her arms to face her, he looked at her with brows raised and a smile playing on his lips.

"To what do I owe this?" he queried as he slung his arms around her hips. Tipping her head back, she leaned her chin against his chest, clear brown eyes meeting twinkling blue ones. A hand drew up his chest then neck to lay against his cheek.

"I'm sorry." Two words, three-syllables, yet so often impossible to say. A hand left her hip and made its way upwards, so fingers could weave into the heavy silk of her hair.

"I thought we'd already settled the matter," he commented lightly.

"You did, at least," she countered.

"Might any further reparations wait until after we've enjoyed our meal?" He was by no means prepared, mentally, to navigate these waters with his mind firmly centered on the sustenance denied his body for days. She gave a short nod.

"It can," she agreed.

"Then, if you wouldn't mind taking the wine and salads to the table, I'll follow shortly with the main course." He bussed her on the forehead when she nodded her agreement.

The late lunch did them good, both in body and spirit. They kept the conversation light throughout the meal and by midway through they were relaxed and laughing. The food, as always, was excellent. After the meal, they cleaned up together before retiring, glasses of wine in hand, to the living room. By unspoken agreement, Remington flipped through the channels, finally settling on _They Live By Night_ (Farley Granger, Cathy O'Donnell, RKO, 1949). Laura stood, setting her glass of wine on the coffee table and waited until he stretched out on the length of the couch, before laying down beside him, her back pressed to his front. She reached for his hand and clasped it in hers, when he wrapped an arm around her waist.

Several minutes passed, as each pretended to watch the movie. Behind her, Remington battled to keep his eyes open, the long, sleepless night in jail finally catching up with him. The irony that he'd been flat on his back, in a drug induced, thirty-six hour sleep only thirty-six hours before was not lost on him. Laura, on her own part, was not fairing much better. Three consecutive nights of tossing and turning, imagining the worst, fearing what the future held, had taken their toll. The warm body pressed to hers from head-to-toe, the smell of soap, cologne and him were working their magic. When she felt Remington's chest rise, steady and true, she gave up the battle and allowed sleep to sweep her away.

* * *

Laura blinked open her eyes, sleep dazed and slightly confused. The room had fallen into darkness, except for the light from the television which droned on as they'd napped. Somehow, on the extraordinarily narrow confines of the couch, they'd shifted as they'd slept. Remington now lay flat on his back, while she was sprawled across him, her head pillowed against his chest, just below his shoulder. All-in-all, always one of the more pleasant of ways to wake.

Tipping her head back, she regarded him, a frown furrowing her brow. Across the years, as they'd shared accommodations while on a case, or in recent weeks as they'd shared a bed, she'd noticed sleep often seemed to be accompanied by unpleasant dreams for him. His brows drew together and lips moved silently as she watched. Reaching up, she ran her fingers through the hair at the side of his head, bemused when he nuzzled against her hand much as he did when awake. With a soft sigh, he shifted slightly underneath her weight, then settled back in to slumber on, only now his face was relaxed and a smile played against his lips.

Touch. It had been present in their day-to-day relationship for as long as she could recall. He used touch to anchor himself, to show affection, to feel a connection, and even to stake a claim. In recent weeks, she'd realized touch also soothed him when he was anxious or insecure, far more than words ever could. Yet when angry or most hurt, he placed physical distance between himself and the offender, usually herself, almost as though during those times, touch violated, hurt.

Touch also guaranteed he'd awaken with a smile on his face.

To that end, she slipped her hand under his shirt and over his side, enjoying the feeling of warm skin stretched taut over the peaks and valleys of his ribs. In short order, he began to stir, humming deep in his throat. She pressed her lips against his neck.

"Are you staying tonight?" he asked, eyes still closed. She tilted her head

"It's Saturday night. Yes. If you want me to…" Bright blue eyes opened and peered down at her while a finger traced her jaw.

"Ah, Laura, can you ever conceive of a circumstance under which I won't want you to stay?" he challenged softly.

"I might not be as forgiving if the shoe—" He sighed deeply, cutting off her words.

"Back to that, then, are we?" He carefully shifted to his side, then rested his head in his hand, supported by an elbow in the couch. "Let's just put this to bed, shall we?"

"I'm sor—" He lay two fingers against her lips, silencing her. His lips twitched with suppressed laughter when the action made him the recipient of narrowed eyes leveled upon him.

"Do I wish you'd never questioned my innocence? Yes, I do. Do I understand your… momentary… doubts are a product of my past as well as your persistent belief I'll walk away now that I've had you? I do. _In the future_ , should we find ourselves in a similar situation, I'd like to ask that you remember two things."

"Oh, and what might those be?" she asked, reaching for his hand and tangling their fingers together.

"First, my past is just that. I've spent more than three years now, changing who I am, what I am, because _this_ is the life I've chosen. _I'm not going anywhere,"_ he reminded her. Her brown eyes lit up at the words. Her free hand glided over his shoulder, to rest at the back of his neck, toying with the hair there.

"And second?"

"I walked away from my pursuit of the Royal Lavulite three years ago on nothing more than a hunch that what we might find in one another would be of far more value." He lifted their joined hands to brush his lips across her knuckles. "If the Royal Lavulite couldn't draw me away from the possibilities of what might be, mere diamonds couldn't drag me away from the reality of what we have." She pried her hand from his, and raked it through his hair until her flattened palm rested on the back of his head, pressing it downwards.

"Come here, Mr. Steele," she urged. He leaned his head down, stilling when their lips hovered millimeters apart.

"That's my line, Miss Holt," he teased, quietly, touching his lips to hers for the briefest of moments before withdrawing

"Not tonight," she corrected, stroking both her hands down the length of his back, smiling when he arched into her touch and his lips found hers again, to stay, to linger this time. A jolt of electricity coursed through his body, as so often happened at her touch, the taste of her, making his heart hammer in his chest.

 _Give her the words, Steele, old sport,_ his heart demanded. Pushing himself up on an elbow, his eyes searched her face, while a thumb grazed over her lower lip.

"Laura, I…" He sputtered to a stop before he said the three words she needed to hear and found her eyes riveted on him. And in that instant, the old fear surged. He'd said the words often as a child, only to be sent on his way. It was his greatest fear these days, had been for some time: Being the first to say those words, only for her to walk away as she had time and again in the past. He took a deep breath, and began again. "I…I care for you."

He could see by the look in her eyes, she'd embraced the words he'd given her, but they had veered wide of the mark he'd hoped for. She nodded her head slowly.

"I know you do," she replied, then stroked her fingers through his hair again. "I care for you, too."

Pushing up off of the couch, he stood by the side of it and held out a hand to her. When she placed her hand in his, he pulled her to her feet then lifted her in his arms, carrying her to his bedroom. He might not be able to say the words yet, but he could show her exactly how he felt about her through deeds.

He waged a sensual war on her wickedly slim form intent on not leaving a millimeter of her flesh untouched by hands or lips, determined to show her what she was to him. Time and again, she turned the tables on him, as she was prone to doing, seemingly as determined as him to show through action what he meant to her. In the end, however, it was Laura left clinging to Remington as she cried out his name, he following a scant couple of seconds behind her. Burying his head in the crook of her neck, he breathed her name repeatedly as her body pulled his over the edge of oblivion with her.

Afterwards, he wrapped himself around her, her face pressed against his chest, her leg tucked between his, one of his hands stroking her damp hair while the other glided soothingly over her back. He found himself nuzzling the top of her head with his chin frequently, when, that is, he wasn't inclined to lower his head to graze a kiss across the top of it, as he wondered how she couldn't know that she'd stolen his heart a long, long time ago. Unable to say those three words, he gave her instead the ones that had brought her such joy each of the times he'd uttered them that day.

"I'm not going anywhere, Laura," he vowed softly, bussing her on the top of her head again. "There's no place I'd rather be."

She smiled against his chest, and in the final moments before sleep stole her away, found it in her to mutter an admission that was as difficult for her as those three words were for him. "Me either."

In those two words he found solace. It would not be her brief doubt that he'd remember about this day from here forward. Rather, it would be her admission that it was here, in his arms, that she wished to be. That night, he slept the dreamless sleep of a content man.


End file.
